


Faux Amour

by emmawantsawarbler



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, Moulin Rouge AU, Prostitute Kurt, writer blaine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6063247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmawantsawarbler/pseuds/emmawantsawarbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When love-searching Blaine Anderson moves to New York City, the last thing he expects is to end up having to write a musical, so when a man with a broken leg falls through his ceiling, leading him to meet a group of love-ridden men, Blaine is shocked when he's offered the position of writing the next big hit. Everything goes swimmingly until he meets Porcelain, the star of the Faux Amour, a popular gay bar meant for men searching for pleasure, and inadvertently falls in love with the courtesan on the way. As Blaine goes through the perils of loving a prostitute whilst writing a play and acting innocent under the careful watch of a jealous client, he realizes there's much more to life and being an author than he's ever known. He only came to love and be loved, yet once he has love, he's not sure if he actually wants it. (Moulin Rouge AU; not necessarily featuring the same songs.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faux Amour

**Author's Note:**

> All I know is this:  
> You are the dust fallen from the stars,  
> and the freckles on my shoulders;  
> you are every one of my millions of nerves  
> and the swirls etched onto the tips of my fingers.  
> I am nothing to you except  
> the dust in your eyes and the green  
> on your shoes,  
> and I don't know how that could be.
> 
> —Autumn S.

It all started the day I moved to New York. I had been planning this trip since the day I was born. I’d leave behind my past, one filled with disapproving fathers, absent brothers, and tired mothers, and go to the Big Apple, never looking back. Though it had taken me twenty-one years, I had. Hard work got me there of course. My father was never one to love the idea of, well, love. (“That’s all you talk about: love, love, love! It’s ridiculous! Leaving will not change that! New York is a city of _sin_!”) I never listened to him. I knew where I wanted to be, and there I would go. Humanity was dawning; it was the revolution of love. Not just of love, but of creativity, and freedom, and self-expression. Now, there was freedom in the first place (it is America), but not for all. This new day would be one for everyone. For people like me especially. And so I went, a dream behind my eyelids, and my wide-eyed naivety ready to turn it into a reality.

* * *

My exit from the airport and into the bustling streets of New York City is jarring, to say the least. The struggle of finding a taxi is worse. I stand there, looking pathetic and helpless, the perfect victim, before realizing that if I want to make it New York, I should act as if I have lived there my entire life. So I throw courtesy out the window. I yell for the nearest taxi I can see and clamber in. My heart pounds as I watch the price for the ride rise with every minute passing. When  we arrive to Manhattan, I feel my descent into poverty in the form of $66.54. I shouldn’t worry so much about money yet, for I come from a decently well-off family, but I can’t help the increasing fear in my stomach. I should be grateful that I have a white, upper middle-class father, and that he is enough to get me on my way, and I suppose I have my mother to thank when it comes to receiving the money needed to come to New York and actually earn a name for yourself. Not that I have much of one yet, but I will! Soon. But my mother, despite all her silence to me, has always been semi-supportive of me. It’s all in her own quiet, watchful ways. I vow to send her a well-thought-out email as soon as I properly set up my first NYC apartment.

It’s nice, my small, new home in SoHo. The thrill of having a small (minuscule, really) piece of New York to call my own is somewhat overwhelming, and I collapse on the floor immediately, tears threatening to spill from my eyes. After gathering myself, I sit up and inspect my new home. Of course I’ve seen it before. Online. It’s refreshing to see it all in person. My bags sit abandoned next to me. I grab them before hauling myself up. The window is sealed tight, raggedy curtains covering it, closing it off from the outside world. I open it immediately.

Blaine Anderson is here to stay.

* * *

The next day is when things inevitably go wrong.

I sit and stare forlornly at the blank document open on my laptop. My service provider luckily arrived yesterday and got me all set, and now I’m ready to write my Great Gay Romance.

The only problem is that I’ve never been in love.

Funny, that, because my father is right when he laments my love for love and how obsessed I am with the emotion, and so this too-true irony is like a blade through the heart. I lean back on my small, dingy couch and rub at my eyes. Everything is still too vivid, too honey-soaked. I need reality.

I get it about two seconds later.

A man is upside down after having fallen through the roof of my apartment. I don’t know how to handle this information. Nor do I know how to handle the sight of a man dressed as a Hawaiian hula girl I soon find out after opening the door to stop the frantic knocking that suddenly sounds throughout my home.

His eyes are wide with panic, and he studies the area behind me. At the sight of his friend, he deflates and shoves me out of the way, ignoring my affronted protest. “Wessy!” His voice is pitchy and startling. He turns to me on his heel. “Let me apologize for my friend’s,” he glances back at ‘Wessy’ before facing me again, “behavior. He slipped.”

“And fell through my ceiling?” The exasperation in my voice is alarmingly evident.

Hula girl-man gives me a shrug, as if saying, “What can you do about it?” He straightens up before whirling around and clutching his friend’s shoulders. “Wes, c’mon, let’s…,” as his voice trails off, I realize what he’s staring at. I suddenly want to join his friend’s state of unconsciousness. I don’t think they’ll be continuing whatever they were before the ceiling incident.

The man introduces himself as Jeff, and I introduce myself, and together we take Wes back upstairs. I don’t know why we don’t immediately contact an ambulance, but we don’t. We lean him against the wall, my leg slotting between his to hold him up better, as Wes kicks open the door. Inside, there’s a group of men, all dressed equally as strange (though maybe not as provocative) outfits and costumes. One is frantically pacing and holding a collection of papers. He stops when he sees us. “Is Wes okay?” he asks. When Jeff and I pull the still-unconscious Wes into the room, bone still peeking out from the broken and bloodied skin, the man’s eyes widen, and he’s by our side in an instant. “This happened because he slipped?”

“And fell through the ceiling, or floor in your case,” I add fruitlessly, drawing the man’s eyes to me along with several others.

The man clears his throat. “That might be it,” he sticks a hand out, and I awkwardly shake it; his grip is firm. “David. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Blaine Anderson,” I say, “and it’s nice to meet you too.” I study the room, the caricatures of people, the poorly designed set of some sort, before looking back at Wes’ damaged limb. “Shouldn’t we get medical help?”

David blinks and looks at Jeff, who in turn looks at a man in a suit, who looks at a man in winter gear, who looks at another. I observe everyone’s interactions, and a curious hum sounds from behind my teeth when everyone looks at Wes. Not that he’d be much help from where he’s injured in my arms. “We should,” David declares with a sense of finality. Jeff reaches into his pocket to pull out a small mobile phone before calling 911. “Hi, yes, my friend slipped and fell through a different friend’s ceiling, and his, um, thigh bone is playing peekaboo with us.” There’s a pause. He gives our location. “Oh. Okay. Good. Thank you.” He hangs up, and his gaze settles on David. “They’ll be on their way.”

I purse my lips but remain quiet. David sighs. “So we just lost our writer.” At this, I perk up.

“A writer, you say?”

David studies me. “Yes.”

A grin spreads across my face. “I’m a writer!”

This causes the men to gasp and mumble quietly amongst themselves.

“Well, you see,” David continues, “we’re working on a musical. A very big and good one. It needs to be miraculous. Brilliant. Not just anyone can pick up on Wes’ task.” I nod. He has a point. David goes to pick up the sheets he threw down. He reads over them, and then he begins to sing as the man in the suit plays the piano: “I shiver greatly, and the cold increases! And I'm losing control because of this power that you give me. It's highly shocking!” He sings well, but the music doesn’t fit. Many agree with this, but no one knows what to replace the lyrics with. Argument breaks out immediately.

I attempt to speak up. However, no one hears me, and after several tries, I instead open my mouth and do what comes naturally. I sing. “I got chills, they're multiplying! And I'm losin’ control ‘cause the power you're supplying? Well, it's electrifying!”

The room goes silent as tears well in Jeff’s eyes. “That was beautiful.” The siren of the ambulance blares suddenly from the street down below. David turns to the door. He takes Wes from my arms and exits before disappearing around the corner. Jeff turns to me. Wes and his broken leg is quickly forgotten. “You’re perfect. Write our musical.”

At first, excitement bubbles in my stomach, but then worry takes over. “But I’ve never written anything before!”

Jeff waves his hand in a nonchalant manner. “Who needs experience? It’s writing—you make the experience!”

“But,” I stutter, “I don’t want to ruin your musical!”

“It’s a musical,” Jeff spreads his arms. “What could go wrong?”

I hesitate before shaking my head. “I’ll mess it up. I don’t even know if I am a writer. I don’t know if I’m meant to be a part of this new age.”

Jeff glances around at the others, a frown on his face, before looking back at me. “Tell me, Blaine, do you believe in,” a cheerful hum spreads around the room, “love?”

I stumble back slightly, eyebrows furrowing. “Of course I believe in love. Love is love. It’s in all of us. The world runs on love. All you need is love!” A smile has crept onto my face.

A soft muttering breaks out across the area. Jeff’s eyes are wide as he stares at me. “Then you, Blaine, are our writer.”

“But how are you producing this musical anyways?”

The men freeze before huddling in the far corner of the room. There's a pause then they all face me and inform me of what they have planned.

His name is Kurt. He works at the Faux Amour. He’s Sue Sylvester’s star. Under the alias of the Porcelain, he rules the show. There are others, but most come to see him. The Faux Amour is a place of passion, overrun with the young and beautiful and the old and rich. Sue Sylvester’s the ringleader of the bar.

The information is a bit too much for me, and I’m ready to go to bed when Jeff suggests something odd. “Let’s get high.” I stumble and hurt my waist on the handle of the door. Jeff has procured a bag of what’s safe to assume is marijuana and is now waving it around, an innocent look on his face. At my half-hearted protest, Jeff shakes his head. “It’ll be inspiration! The beauty of tomorrow will be spilling from your fingertips.”

I accept his proposition.

* * *

I’m floating, and everything is moving. I wonder if this is what bliss feels like.

We are the children of tomorrow and the lovers of tonight.

Our musical is halfway through by the time the sun hits the horizon and morning begins.

* * *

The Faux Amour is packed. Scantily clad men drag their leather-covered bums against my front, and doe-eyed twinks gaze at me from under long lashes.

Jeff pulls me along to a table near an Employee’s Only door. We sit, and Jeff tells me through a haze of smoke about how he has set me up a time with Kurt—alone, might I add—and how I should read some of what we’ve worked on. Kurt will love it and go to Sylvester, who will, in turn, aid in producing and funding it. I’m about to question how he got all of this secured when the lights dim and the music cuts before a new song begins.

A sultry voice comes from somewhere in the room: “ _Je commence à vous taquiner. Vous l'appelez amour. Je l'appelle putain._ ”

The music swells.

“Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah! Roma-roma-mamaa! Ga-ga-ooh-la-la! Want your bad romance!” A tall, pale beauty ascends on a platform from inside a closed-off area. His hair is perfectly coiffed, and his eyes are a startling blue. But then they’re green. Then blue once more. I fall in love with them immediately. “I want your ugly, I want your disease. I want your everything as long as it's free. I want your love! Love, love, love—I want your love!”

His voice is mystical. I surrender to it quickly.

“That’s him,” Jeff says. “That’s Porcelain.”

“Kurt,” I clarify.

“Kurt,” Jeff confirms.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I am writing a Moulin Rouge! AU. How exciting. Really I'm just in it for the angst, but whatever. This is clearly a work in progress, and I have a feeling there will be a love-hate relationship between me and my writing on this, but that's all cool. It's all fine. I don't want this to have a lot of chapters. Judging by the length of this first chapter, and my habit of writing more in each chapter as time goes on, this'll have maybe five. Hopefully I'll be able to go back and alter the lengths once the fic is complete, but I might not. Anyways, I hope you've all enjoyed this first chapter.
> 
> As always, hugs! xx


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